


Things Best Left Forgotten

by GrantairetheCynical (Rebel_Atar)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Atar/pseuds/GrantairetheCynical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A night of heavy drinking after an argument with his Apollo ends disatrously for the cynic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was drunk.

That in itself was not unusual but he was so, so drunk.

Another wretched meeting, another fight because Apollo could comprehend the phrase constructive criticism. What did he care anyways if they got themselves killed, death was a constant, an inevitable and unstopable force. Who was he to question how they went about it.

Nevermind that they were his friends, he was supposed to be beyond care by now, nevermind that his life was better now they were in it, nevermind he was beginning to live again rather than just survive. Nevermind that he could not imagine a world without his muse, that he did not think he’d manage long in it now.

He had been sat drinking for hours now, trying to drown out the pain of the fight, the fear of his friends deaths. He was melancholic, mildly surly and radiated an aura of needing his solitude. Not everyone pays attention to thses things though.

 

The man was not as drunk as Grantaire, who was by now swaying in his seat, but he was drunk enough. He recognised Grantaire, had heard about Grantaire.  
The Libertine lush who spent his time drinking his life away.

Drunkard, drunk, voluptuate, profligate, sodomite, catamite. The words cut deeper that night, after so many being hurled at him already, he would not stand these. He slurred his displeasure, spat his own insults, rose and left, bottle loosly grasped in his hand.

He meandered through the streets of Paris, feet unsteady, he took sidestreets and back alleys this night, not wishing to chance an encounter with his suicidal friends. There was a clatter behind him, he turned, swaying and got a fist to his face. He was knocked to the ground. The same man that insulted him in the bar stood above him, grinning with malice.

“Poor little drunkard, can’t find his way home” he taunted. “You think you can insult me, disgusting little wretch that you are.” 

He delivered a kick to the artist’s ribs, flooring him from where he had been getting up.

“I know your type, libertine, I know filth like you, sodomites, catamites, you’re disgusting and you have the gall to insult me. I’ll show you, filth. I think its about time someone put you in your place.”

He knelt beside Grantaire and slammed his head into the ground, leaving R even more dazed on top of the drunken stupor. He reached around to unbutton the artist’s trousers before pulling them down roughly and starting on his own. Grantaire groaned into the cobbles and raised his head, raised himself up on his arms.

“Wha-what do you think you’re doing” he slurred with uncertainty.

“Quiet filth!”

He slammed Grantaire’s head into to street again causing it to split and the artist cried out in pain as his blood ran onto the cobbles.

“Don’t even pretend you don’t want this, filthy little catamite like you, I bet you’re gagging for it, besides, you’re so far into the bottle I doubt you even really know what’s happening”

He pulled Grantaire’s legs apart roughly and laid one hand on his head, pushing it into the stone, the other guided himself into vague position before moving to brace on the ground. He thrust in, hard and brutal, and Rene screamed.

The pain was unbearable and he could feel himself tear and the slick of the blood begin to run down his thighs. He scrabbled for purchase, bucked, and twisted, and writhed, kicked, and struggled, desperatly trying to throw the man off and got his head slammed into the cobbles again for the trouble.

His vision swam, he shook his head to clear it, grit his teeth against the pain and used all of his strenght and weight to throw his body to one side, rolling them, man tumbling off of him. He wasted no time, he turned and drove fist after first into face, gut and crotch until his knuckles were bloody and bruised and the man was pleading and begging him to stop.

He rose, pulled himself and his clothing together, spat in the mans face and left.  
He limped back to his flat, wincing with every step, still able to feel the blood dripping down between his legs. He kept his head bowed, not wanting anyone to see the tears that also dripped down his face.

Once home he locked and bolted his door for once, shoved a table in front of it to be on the safe side and stripped. The clothes he would burn in the morning. He cleaned himself up as best he was able and crawled into bed, shaking, tears still falling.

He wrapped himself in blankets and tried to sleep, knowing his friends would be easily persuaded that the bruises and cuts to his face were from just another bar brawl.

They would never know.


	2. Communication Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis discover Grantaire's secret

He had never meant for them to find out. Now that they had he did not know what to do with himself. He wanted things to go back to normal. Wanted them to see him as a funny somewhat melancholic drunken libertine again, not this, not a victim.

That wasn’t going to happen though.

He told them he was coping though and every time he said, ‘there was nothing you could do’, 'I did not want you to see me in this light’, 'I didn’t want to trouble you’.  
What he meant was 'I didn’t want him to see how far I have fallen’, 'he would not have let you do anything for something so unimportant’, 'I did not want to see how little he cared’.

Every time he said 'it was months ago’, 'I can’t really remember what he looked like’  
What he meant was 'I still have nightmares’, 'I’m so scared he’ll find me again’.

Every time he said 'I’ll be fine’  
What he meant was 'please help me, I don’t think I can do this on my own’.

They were his friends, he did not wish to dirty them with this. He did not wish for them to look at him with pity, to see how weak he was, how vulnerable. 

He did not know how to ask for their help, but he did not know how to continue without it.


	3. Failed Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire tries to push past his trauma and return to his normal activities

Grantaire had reached his limit. His libido had always been very high and he was just not used to abstaining the way he had been lately.

Surely it did not matter that he was no longer suppressing certain events.

He had been to brothels since then and everything had been fine. So why did he get the distinct feeling this was a bad idea.

He left his flat and wound his way to one of the dens he knew well. He chose a woman for the night, paid in advance so if worst came to worst at least she hadn’t wasted her time.

The worst as it turned out was far worse than he had imagined. Stripped of his waistcoat and shirt he had felt vulnerable. The touch of her skin on his had felt wrong somehow, he could not place the feeling.

When he turned to unbutton his trousers she had pressed up behind him. Unannounced, strange skin pressed against his back, hands gripping his hips and suddenly he wasn’t there any more. He was eight months previous and the one pressed against his back was decidedly not female.

He snapped back to reality made his excuses and left. He was shaking, partly through fear and panic, partly through frustration, both sexual and with his own inability to satisfy his urges. His friends he could not turn to right now, and strangers he could apparently not stomach.

Angry and upset he stormed off to the Musain, desperately in need of a drink.


End file.
